


Six Months Later

by thewinterspy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action, Angst, Autism, F/M, Family, Gen, Healing, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Multi, PTSD, Sexual Content, Torture, Violence, injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-11 16:24:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewinterspy/pseuds/thewinterspy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft said it would take six months for Sherlock to die. Mycroft, of course, is never wrong. It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool him.</p><p> </p><p>(Alternatively, a universe where Moriarty never appears on the screens of London, and Sherlock goes away.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - Liz Pottinger

**Author's Note:**

> So, I've gotten started on this idea, and there's not much to say so far other than it is an AU where the scene at the airport went very differently, and I hope you enjoy.

Sand, just as easily as it garners interest, wears it away. At least, in Lizzie Pottinger's opinion, it does. It was unsurprising, really. Sand stopped being a game long ago, but rather a coping mechanism. Like a sailor who'd been at sea, she was never at ease with stable ground. That was the mindset of a coastal kid. Sand, shifting between toes, that was what grounded a coast town girl like her. She'd lived in Aldeburgh all her life, like her mother and her grandmother before her. And her own daughter would. Her own daughter would grow used to the sand between her toes and find it, not interesting, but necessary. Jessica Pottinger was content for now though, and that was what mattered to Lizzie.

 

She had herself set up on a towel, managing to get a few pages in on her reading before glancing up to check on her daughter. Castle making. Jessica and her castles. The little girl looked up as her mother did, and waved in greeting. Lizzie smiled, bent her fingers in the child's direction in lieu of calling out. As she did, a breeze rolled past. Blimey, was it ever cold. She tugged her sweater a little closer around her, cursing all the winds from the east, and went back to her reading.

 

"Mummy!" Jessica called, "Come see!"

 

"I can see it from here Jessie," Lizzie yelled back, barely glancing up from the book, "Your castle is very pretty,"

 

"Mummy!" the girl insisted again, "Come and see! Look!"

 

Lizzie sighed, and picked up her bookmark, "Give me a mo, I'll be there,"

 

"Mummy, come now!"

 

The mother set her book aside, place marked, and got to her feet. As she swept at her clothes, she started forwards, walking over to her daughter. She stopped to scoop up a shell, partly shattered, and kept her pace forwards.

 

"What is it, Jessie?"

 

Jessica pointed, not to her castle, but out to sea, "I saw a mermaid!"

 

Lizzie gasped, and stooped to her daughter's level, "Really? Where did you see the mermaid?"

 

"Out in the water, right-- there! Right there, Mummy!"

 

There was a splash, and what Lizzie noticed was an arm. Someone swimming, then.

 

"Ooh, I see the mermaid now," she said, playing along for her daughter's sake, "Do you think she's coming to say hello to us?"

 

"That's not a good idea Mummy, because mermaids aren't nice and they can eat your face off,"

 

"Oh yes, of course. My fault. Should we call the water police, then?" Lizzie, distractedly, set the shell she'd picked up on the front of Jessica's castle, a sigil as it were.

 

"Probably. But the mermaid's hurt so it can't kill us anyways,"

 

"Hurt?" Lizzie blinked. The imagination of children would always surprise her.

 

"Yeah. Her arm's all red. Probably sharks," Jessie said in her 'logic' voice.

 

Lizzie's gaze snapped up, watching for the swimmer. There was the splash of feet kicking, an arm swinging around... and the other... the other was...

 

The person was fine. They were returning to shore just fine.

 

"Well, I guess we better finish this castle of yours to keep us safe. We can't stay in here!" Lizzie said, incredulous, and her daughter giggled.

 

The pair of them worked together to fill a pail of sand, Jessica using her favourite pink shovel, and Lizzie, using her hands to scoop it up. As they did, their interest in the mermaid waned, until such a point that when the swimmer approached shore, Lizzie had forgotten about them. A disgruntled noise from the ocean had her looking up at the waves, as a head emerged from the water. A dark haired person, and Lizzie was baffled to notice that the person was wearing clothes. What she had thought was a bare arm was a thin, white shirt.

 

"Mummy?" Jessica asked, noticing her mother wasn't paying attention. She followed her gaze to the swimmer, and gasped, "Uh oh! The mermaid!"

 

Lizzie frowned, narrowing her eyes. The person - a man - was now close enough to get to his feet. But he was still swimming, still sputtering out breaths by turning his head.

 

"Hello?" she called out to the man, "Do you need any help?"

 

The man kept swimming for a bit longer, so close that surely his hands would be touching the ocean floor, so close that surely he could just let the tide guide him onto the sand, until finally he lifted his head, and there was a strangled noise.

 

Lizzie was on her feet in an instant, crashing into the waves to help pull the man onto shore. Behind her, Jessica warned her about the danger of mermaids, but the facade needed to be dropped. When she took the man's hand and tugged, he yelped, the noise buried in the water beneath him. She needed to be careful, but urgency overruled her judgement. She dragged him away from the waves, as he coughed and sputtered, his face planted in the sand. His clothes clung to him, as he shook from the cold of the Channel's water.

 

"Careful, careful, just take it easy, relax. Are you alright?" Lizzie asked, helping him cough out the excess water.

 

Quivering like a leaf, the man slumped onto his side, and met Lizzie's eyes with a pale, bloodshot glare.

 

"Get me to the hospital. And call my brother. Tell him I'm going to murder him."

 

With that, Sherlock Holmes seized and threw up the salt water in his stomach.


	2. John

_“The east wind, this terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path. Seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the earth. That was generally me.”_

 

_No wonder he hates himself, he reckons in his head, as he stares at the man about to be plucked from the earth, his world, their universe. Mycroft really is a rubbish older brother, telling this man that he’s the end to all things._

 

_The words he can't say cut at his tongue, digging themselves into the rut they've stayed in for days, months, years, embedding themselves into his teeth, like an explosive that could destroy him at any moment with the right way of biting down. If he died in this second, so would he. That man with the coat collar. That man with the long, violinist fingers. That man with the magnifying glass eyes. That man, the one that saved his heart. He casts a glance over to her, watching them from afar. She gives him a strong smile, and nods. He pursues his lips, ducks his head, so he doesn't have to look at either of them._

 

_“For how long?” he asks, but he knows the answer, he knows that the man dies the moment he steps onto the plane. He knows that he died days ago, when Charles Augustus Magnussen was shot. Dead man walking. His lips twitch, and he tries not to cry. There are better things to cry over. There are worse things to cry over._

 

_He can't let Sherlock Holmes see him cry, so he laughs when Sherlock tries to._

 

_“To the best of times.”_

 

_Sherlock really was rubbish at goodbyes. It can't be real, not this. This is just another way to make him say something nice about Sherlock bloody Holmes. His mind tells him to get angry, to grab Sherlock and shake him. Alright stop it, stop it now! But he's spent so long being angry, at his mind and his heart, that he doesn't have the energy for rage._

 

_Grief takes up all the room in his soul._

 

_He shakes Sherlock Holmes' hand and tries not to cry. But his mind shakes with it, like a dam crumbling and aching under the force of it all, this neverending current, this building fire, this... chilling east wind._

 

_He wants to steal Sherlock Holmes' coat and hide from the east wind forever._

 

_He lets go of Sherlock Holmes' hand, and his mind tells him that's the last time they’ll ever touch._

 

_Sherlock tries to smile. His knees shake at the sight, because he can't hold himself up. Not while Sherlock Holmes is crumbling like a dam._

 

_The detective straightens himself up, and turns to the plane. Not another word to Mary, not even another word to Mary, just keeps walking. Is Sherlock counting those steps? Because he knows he is. He's counting every step Sherlock Holmes takes away from him._

 

_There's twenty three steps. Or at least, that's where Sherlock stops. For a whole minute, staring into the doorway of the plane that will fly him away._

 

_His foot moves to take the twenty fourth step, and stops. He stops and stands facing the doorway of the plane. Sherlock moves, and he can feel his heart leap into his throat. It pounds and breaks as Sherlock turns and looks at him. His eyes are wide, and he’s split open like a autopsy. When the man opens his mouth to call out to him, there’s no rut in his mouth._

 

_“John, I-”_

 

_“No.”_

 

 _He shakes his head, because suddenly his knees can't take it, but somehow he's still standing, why is he still standing, Sherlock Holmes is really going to die, this isn't a train compartment, or the pavement below the rooftop of St. Bart's Hospital, this is real, it's too real, no, no, no, he can't, he- he made a promise! He made a fucking_ vow.

 

_Sherlock's hurrying back, his pace brisk, even as Mycroft moves forwards to take his brother’s arm. He doesn't hear or see the protests Sherlock makes, he just knows that somehow, some way, Sherlock's pushing his brother away, and invades the space between the two of them, grabbing the front of his shirt._

 

_“John, I-”_

 

_“No,” he repeats, numbly, because he feels the grief escaping his soul, ebbing into his body, his mind, his heart. Sherlock leans in, his nose grazing his, and the touch stings, painful enough that he has to push the man to arm's length._

 

_“No!” he repeats again, the force pushing at his dam pushing the words out of his mouth, “You- you're-”_

 

_“Please, John please-”_

 

_“If you do, you won't say it.”_

 

_The earth, his world, their universe, goes silent. Sherlock's breath staggers out from his lips, like a torn soldier returning from battle._

 

_From beside him, a bedside table with a white radio on it blares. He looks away from Sherlock, down to the radio._

 

The baby is crying.

 

_He looks back up at Sherlock, and slowly lets go. He steps back. He takes in his surroundings. The humming from the plane has gone still. There's another plane in the sky, hovering like a model hanging from a child's room. He used to have one of those in his own room. He turns and sees the guards waiting by the steps, frozen in hushed conversation. Mycroft stands not too far away from them, carefully observing the pair of them. It's like they're fish in an aquarium. Mary stands beside the brother, arms crossed over her belly. They're having a girl. A baby girl. He looks back at Sherlock, who's still as a statue. The man's hands still reach for the space that he'd been in, fingers curled around a shirt that was no longer there._

_He reminds himself that Sherlock isn’t a girl’s name._

 

_Gently, like the entire tableau would shatter with a single movement, he raises one hand, and puts his fingers on the back of Sherlock's hand. There's no feeling of what his skin felt like. He didn't bother to remember. Every time he remembers that he didn't bother keeping that, he feels a tinge of hatred for himself in his own gut._

 

_He pushes his thumb against Sherlock's vein, stark and pulsing strong. He pushes his thumb until the skin eases away, like clay under his hand. He hates remembering Sherlock so distressed, and it wouldn't be terribly bad if he did something to ease Sherlock Holmes, even if it was just easing his blood pressure._

 

_Even if it was all in John Watson's head._

 

The radio shrieks again.

 

_He smiles, and curls his hand into the furled hand of Sherlock's memory._

 

_“To the best of times,” he assures the man._

 

He was surprised that Mary hadn't woken up, with all the noise. But she was gone to the world. Couldn't blame her, not really. The baby was up the other night, couldn't be put down, so Mary had stayed with her. John hummed, marvelling the woman's brilliance, as he brushed his wife's hair over her ear. She mumbled incoherently, snuggling her pillow closer to her head. As she did, her bottom lip pouted out, in such a way that she would never do consciously. Mary always made the most ridiculous faces when she was asleep. Most people did. No one was really the Sleeping Beauty they liked to think they were while asleep.

 

John pushed the covers off his legs, and got to his feet. His body protested with a wince, his leg having fallen asleep during the hours he'd been in his own mind palace.

 

He was really was looking for another word for it. Palace seemed too extravagant. A... mind flat, was probably better. Or mind study. Study was better, god knows all the information he kept wasn't a big enough collection to call it a flat. He didn't keep anything Sherlock Holmes or Magnussen would have kept. Just... things he figured should be kept somewhere. Afternoons following school with his mates. His first date with Mary. Winning MVP with his rugby team. Sherlock.

 

A sigh accompanied the realization that he had left the mind... study, without finishing the memory. That left things a bit cluttered in his head. He'd have to fix that, but the baby was up. She was the important thing. She always came first.

 

As he tottered down the hall, the wails that ricocheted down the hall tapered into confused titters. With a sigh, he pushed open the door to the nursery. The nursery was pitch black, save for the light from the window that cast down a rectangle onto the carpet. John flipped on the light, blinking at the sudden brightness. When his eyes adjusted, he found his baby in her crib, tossing her arms about and whining.

 

John crossed the room, making hushing noises as he did. He tapped his fingers along the edge of the crib, and smiled down at the little girl. The whines back feeble whimpers at the sight of her father, and she stuffed one fist into her mouth.

 

“Hey now, what's the fuss all about?” he murmured, reaching down to take her into his arms. She sniffled into his shoulder, drooling spit all over his night shirt. He took it in stride, holding her with one arm while his other hand came to support her head.

 

“Shh shh, what's wrong now?” His thumb smoothed down her hair, feather light to the touch. It was ridiculous, how thin his little girl's hair was, he honestly couldn't get enough of it. God knows it wasn't from him. The crying dimmed into blissful silence, before the girl started up her noise tenfold. John sighed, and began rocking.

 

“Hush now, shh shh... We'll get some food. I'll get some food for you, how's that sound? Hungry, eh?”

 

He was already heading to the door, getting the nursery light with his elbow on his way out. They pattered down to the kitchen, John trying to hum a lullaby to calm her. He always hummed – he could never remember the bloody words. Balancing her in one arm, he had the fridge open. Quick as a whip, he had one bottle out and tapped the fridge closed with his foot.

At the sight of the bottle, the baby shook her fist at it, grunting at it. John held it up so she could see it better, just out of reach. He frowned down at her.

 

“Oh, you wanted this? Nah love, this one’s for me,” he mimed taking a sip from the bottle, which earned him a loud squeak in response. John smirked at the sound, and left a noisy kiss on top of the baby's head as he stuck the bottle in the microwave to heat it up. Just as he hit the start button, there was a buzzing noise from the counter. His phone, he realized when he glanced around. Well, that made sense. He and Mary always left them out to charge on the counter. Though who knew was calling at this hour.

 

With a bit of a juggling act, he had the baby in one arm, while he unhooked the phone from its charger and hit answer. John stuck the phone between his shoulder and ear and asked, “Hello?”

 

“Hello John,” the man on the other end purred, “I need a favour.”

 

John stood still, still as the detective frozen in his memories.

 

“Mycroft,” he said. The baby started to cry again, impatient without the attention from her daddy.

 

“I need you to act as a mailman for me. There's something I need you to pick up,”

 

“And why would I do anything for you?” John’s voice came out harsher than he meant. It always came out harsher than he meant.

 

There was a pleasant hum at the end – always that indifference. The cock. John bristled, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

 

“Because John,” Mycroft answered smoothly, as casually as talking about the weather, “Sherlock Holmes needs a doctor.”

 

The name was like ice going down John's throat. He stood with the phone pressed between his ear and his shoulder, pressing his baby girl to his chest. A sound of protest came from her, jerking John out of the trance he was in. His head lifted to look down at her, and the phone clattered to the ground.

 

The baby shook her fist at the phone, and made a move with her head as if she was shaking in disapproval.

  
Slowly, his thumb carded through the baby’s feather light, black hair.


	3. Mary

God, Mary hated hospitals. They were far too white, far too bright for her sensitive eyes. Her first flat had been white. She'd been meaning to paint it over forever, but it wasn't until John moved in with her that the walls were covered up with wallpaper. Not that it mattered now, with the new flat to make room for the baby. Would there be enough room for Sherlock?

 

Of course, Sherlock. The man sleeping away, his heartbeat echoing in the room with an insistent BEEP that let her know that he was still alive. Six bloody months without seeing the bastard, of course she was going to keep her eye on him. John would protest a little, but when it came to his best... well, Sherlock, she knew he'd be drawn to the man's proximity. Sherlock Holmes, 'danger' is his middle name. Well technically, Sherlock is his middle name. But danger was probably Mrs. and Mr. Holmes' second choice.

 

Speaking of the man, his head jerked in his sleep, as if turning to look at Mary. His vitals remained constant, so she let him rest. It wasn't like he was shot again. He was just tired, although his back would be killing him once he got off the hospital's morphine. Cervical radiculopathy - pinched nerves. That's what the charts said, at least, his arms nearly well paralyzed when he got it. It could go away by itself, although she'd be doubling checking if the muscles were still coiling. God knows how it happened, though nothing good ever came from a mission with a time slot.

 

_"Six months."_

_"And after?"_

_"Who knows."_

 

The very nice way of a suicide note. Though Sherlock had to go and... well, had to go and break John's heart. Mary bit her lip, looked at her fingers intertwining in her lap.

 

In all honesty, she hated seeing Sherlock sleep. In all the time she knew him, he nearly never slept, and yet... there would be moments. For example, one time before the wedding, she had stopped by to pick up a completed table checklist Sherlock had said he'd finish. She found the man gone to the world, sitting at the table by the window. He must have been pressing his hands together in that curious prayer-like position of his, because his arms were lying across the table, his head on his left arm and his right hand over his left. As if someone had hit power off on the poor man and everything shut down. It would be easy to kill him - Mrs. Hudson never saw Mary come in, no witnesses on the street, not at that time of night. John wouldn't have suspected at the time, not have had a clue about how meticulously Mary planned the murder of everyone around her. The plan would have been solid, no spare room for Sherlock Holmes murder... No, no no no, wait. Big Brother Holmes had CCTV on the place, and god knows how much security Sherlock had.

 

(Clearly not enough security, especially if Mycroft let Mary Morstan approach his sleeping baby brother and push the curls out of his eyes away from his irritated eyes.)

 

Mary knew all about the masks people held up to the world. She was one of them, after all. A person, not a mask. Not anymore. Sherlock Holmes was nothing out of the ordinary, in that vein. He had a mask, and a bloody strong one at that. A mask that hid his entire emotional range. She knew it had to be quite a range that he hid day to day, having seen the consequence of his wall shattering. Sherlock, unfortunately, was an idiot when it came to emotions. As opposed to building layer after layer after layer, he'd focused all his attention on making a single wall as thick as possible. When his mask broke, he was as fragile as glass, and that... that was terrifying. If a mask so strong could shatter so easily, what did that mean about the people who were weaker than Sherlock Holmes?

 

Maybe hate was a strong word for it. She didn't hate the sight of Sherlock's vulnerability, but the way it brought up such protective instincts inside her definitely did.

 

She exhaled gently, her shoulder sagging a bit. Mary tilted her head, and reached out to fix Sherlock's hair. Hospitals were rubbish for grooming, and Sherlock needed that as much as he needed his suits. He was like one of those long haired pets, in constant need of brushing. And vacuuming after.

 

At her touch, Sherlock's brow tightened as if he were confused. Maybe someone was baffling him in his dreams. She huffed out an amused breath through her nose. John had told her the story about him and Sherlock's first meeting. How Sherlock had been surprised by John's awe. It wouldn't be a surprise if Sherlock was dreaming about John, it happened plenty of times the other way around.

 

She glanced at the door at the thought of her husband. He had disappeared to change the baby's nappie. God knows it was time for that. It was a three hour drive up to Aldeburgh, though the baby managed to sleep through most of it, thank god. John had been silent throughout the entire ride, shaking like a lap dog. If it had been anyone but Sherlock they were going to see, Mary would have held his hand. But this was also Sherlock, and the last time Sherlock Holmes was in the hospital, it was her fault. She wasn't a genius like the detective was, she knew that, but she also wasn't an idiot. She knew John loved her with all his heart and soul, but in that moment he was hating her.

 

She knew that when the baby needed a change, it was a good excuse to get some space from her.

 

The heart monitor whirred and beeped a little faster, warning Mary about Sherlock waking up. She turned her head, just as he shifted in his sleep. A humming noise came from him, most likely from the sensation of his back. She reached out, fixing his hair again as his eyelids fumbled. His mouth pressed, and his tongue wet the lips before sliding open to take a breath. Mary's hand returned to its place on the railing of the bed, and Sherlock's eyes opened. Pale blue gaze met dark green focus.

 

"Hey," Mary said, trying a smile. It worked, for a moment, before her face slipped back into its seemingly natural state of worry. Sherlock breathed for a moment, eyebrows confused, before he replied.

 

"What... what are you doing here?"

 

Still no mask. The consulting detective stared at her with bafflement, even worry. She sighed, and shuffled her chair a little closer.

 

"Your brother called us, me and John, told us to come pick you up."

 

Sherlock processed the sentence slowly, his thoughts obscured by the drugs that kept him lying down. His mouth formed around one word slowly, then he mimicked Mary's sigh, his much more impatient.

 

"Mycroft. Bloody coward," he muttered, looking around the room again, "Where am I?"

 

"Southwold, the hospital. The doctor said you showed up in Aldeburgh-?"

 

Sherlock groaned, pushing his head back against his pillow, "Aldeburgh. Stupid, stupid. Too far,"

 

"Sorry, what-?" Mary made a face, but had no time to hear an answer. The door behind her creaked open, and her question was cut off by a quiet blabber from John.

 

"Here we are, there's Mummy now, don't you-"

 

Mary looked at the door just as John cut off, seeing Sherlock wide awake. The baby, tucked away in the crook of John's elbow, gurgled away, her tiny hands pinching at his jumper. The doctor remained ignorant, staring with wide eyes that seemed far too blank. Slowly, his mouth pinched shut. He stepped in, making sure the diaper bag wouldn't block the door before closing it.

 

"Sorry, she just needed a change, I didn't think you'd be up-"

 

"Your baby has dark hair," Sherlock blurted, his head perking up from its pillow. He winced. Mary put her hand on his head and pushed it back down.

 

"Yes, she does. Don't aggravate yourself, your entire back is pinched," Mary warned him, fixing his curls.

 

"Your baby, obviously," he continued on, as if Mary hadn't said anything at all, "It's only you and Mary here, you have no friends' babies to take care of, why would you? You wouldn't bring a friend's baby on a two hour trip to Southwold Hospital, you would have found a replacement. Wouldn't have found a replacement if it was your baby, not your baby of two-three months. Three, I'm assuming three from the hands - grasping, three month olds like to grasp-" To show an example of a three month old grasping, he held up his own hand, clenching and unclenching into a fist before dropping it, "But the dark hair - black hair with two blonde parents, I'd be flattered to say I'm the variable, but-"

 

John jerked in surprise, exaggerating a blink. Mary sighed, and picked up his hand, placing it between hers. She pulled his hand up to her hair. At her touch, Sherlock shut right up, watching her. His fingertips touched her roots, and his mouth fell into a small 'o'.

 

"You're a brunette."

 

"Last time I checked, yeah." At his baffled look, Mary chuckled and pressed a kiss to his hand, "You're getting slow on the uptake. Too old for your own good."

 

"Young enough to make it through six months of-" John cut himself off when Mary whirled around to face him. Sherlock blinked out the clarity of realization from his face, and took his hand out of Mary's gently to put it down on the bed. The pause stretched longer than it should have if everything was 'alright' as John’s tone had made it seem. Mary glanced up at John, his face surely mirroring the same look of guilt. She pursed her lips, nodding slightly with her head to make him cheer Sherlock up.

 

John's mouth opened, _Do I have to?_

 

Mary's look hardened into a glare.

 

Hastily, John angled the baby so she could blink her dark eyes at Sherlock. He plastered a smile on his face, and spoke to the baby, "See here, Minnie? It's your uncle Sherlock. Might as well get used to this sight, he's in places like this all the time,"

 

Mary smiled, reaching up to play with her baby's tiny toes where they peeked out from under her blanket. Sherlock stared at the baby for a moment, as if she were a specimen under his microscope lens, before taking a deep sigh.

 

" _Mina_ , how dismal,"

 

“How'd you guess Mina from Minnie?” Mary wondered, her nose wrinkling.

 

“Oh, it's not as though it's a giant leap,” Sherlock chastised. He turned his gaze to glare at Mary, as if she had just tried to poison him. "That poor child will never been taken seriously with the name Mina."

 

"Well," Mary sighed, glancing over at him again. Her hand curled around the baby's foot, her thumb stroking the underside of it, "We figured a nickname might make the bullies a little less mean,"

 

"Of course," John agreed, "Wilhelmina works for signatures, resumes."

 

"Business transactions," Mary tacked on.

 

"Adult stuff," John's nose wrinkled at the word adult, teasing Sherlock.

 

Sherlock blinked, and for a good minute he was utterly silent. He stared at the baby, who fussed a little in her father's arms, barely paying anyone mind. Slowly yet surely, the detective's brow furrowed into a knot, pressed into place by utter confusion.

 

“Sheeerlock?” Mary asked as the man's silence stretched for longer than it should. She gently touched his hand, which caused him to draw a sharp breath. His mouth opened, then closed. Sherlock swallowed, and tilted his head to the side.

 

“Maybe we should let him sleep,” John offered, nudging Mary's shoulder with his elbow to coax her to her feet, but Sherlock spoke over him.

 

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” he said, “That's what I said, my name. I told you my name.”

 

Sherlock's eyes went wide, and he stared at John as if he were trying to burn a hole through the doctor's skull through pure willpower.

 

John looked directly at Mary, and repeated, “We should let him sleep.”

 

“John-” she tried, but the doctor shook his head.

 

“He's tired, the hospital has him until tomorrow for clearance-”

 

“I'm not tired,” Sherlock injected, his tone waspish. Mary sighed, puttering her hands on her temples.

 

“You are. You've wrecked your back, and you need rest-” John protested.

 

“My back is fine-”

 

“Sherlock-”

 

“I swear to god, the both of you, I will not have another one of these bloody reunion arguments, not with the baby in the room!” Mary blurted, her hands shooting out. She pushed her chair back noisily, and got to her feet.

 

_These boys and their stupid-_ She closed her eyes to collect herself, then slowly breathed out. Her eyes opened, and she looked straight at Sherlock, who gave her his baffled look.

 

“I am going to change the topic now and neither of you are going to protest.”

 

When the two men opened their mouths to protest, she lifted a single finger and stuttered out, “Eh eh! No. Protesting. Topic change in five – four – three – two – one. Look Sherlock, we have a baby. Would you like to hold Mina?”

 

Sherlock had to be on drugs, he simply had to be. She'd never seen his brow go any lower. His mouth formed syllables, touching each letter.

 

“H-old?”

 

“Jesus,” John muttered beside her. Mary sighed, rubbing her temple.

 

_You can always back out now, M,_ she reminded herself. Of course, she wouldn't. She was too stubborn. Mary perched herself on the edge of the bed, and took Sherlock's hand between her own again.

 

“Alright. Here's what's going to happen. We've got a place for the night, and you're sticking around here for another night of observation. We'll pick you up tomorrow, and then we're driving back down to London. Then, because you can't be left alone, you'll be staying with us for the next two weeks. That means you'll be in a very small home with a newborn baby, and like it or not, you'll be roommates.”

 

Sherlock's bottom lip stuck out. Mary couldn't help but remember a warm face, and a gentle voice teasing If you pout like that, a bird's gonna come along and steal your lip. She looked down at their hands, curling her own lips in nervously. Although she doubted he knew, Mary could see Sherlock's gaze flicking past her, straight to that pair of gorgeous blue eyes. Not that she was a detective. John's eyes were just hard to resist taking a glimpse at. God knows if she was away for six months, she wouldn't stop staring.

 

A quiet inhale of breath came from Sherlock, one so sudden that it made Mary look up quickly. He looked at her, swallowing before trying out the words he was trying to say.

 

"So... you mean, I'm..."

 

"Staying with us-"

 

"An uncle?"

 

Mary's head jerked in surprise. Her mouth bobbed for a moment, and she turned her head to look at John for help. He looked as surprised as she felt.

 

His mouth moved wordlessly for a moment, before he said, "Yes, yes of course, Sherlock she's- she has _your_ name for goodness sake."

 

Sherlock's head lifted, hesitating a beat before finishing the action of a nod.

 

"Oh."

 

" _Oh_ , he says," Mary laughed, squeezing his hand. He glanced at her as she grinned, and slowly let the corner of his mouth tip up. It was almost shy of him, really. Has to be drugs, Mary concluded in her head, has to be. She looked up at John, and held out her arms, "Here, give me my baby."

 

Mina was passed from father to mother, tossing her limbs. Mary hushed her, moving a hand into the folds of Mina's blanket to let her tiny fingers hold one of her own. Lips pursed, the baby blew raspberries at her. The mother made the same sound, using her thumb to stroke Mina's cheek for a moment.

 

"Hello baby. Mummy's here, and look. Here's Uncle Sherlock, say hello," Mary shifted in her seat, so Sherlock could see the baby better. Sherlock had no choice but to adjust as she did. His face was that of someone trying not to seem as interested as he really was. _Ooh, that's just adorable._ Mary smiled, watching as Sherlock tried to crane his neck without aggravating it.

 

Mina was no different, meeting this new big person. She seemed to have forgotten about Mary entirely, instead staring - no, no no no, those eyes were far too concentrated, she was _observing_ \- this new big person. Her mouth fumbled, squirming as if she eaten something rotten. Finally, Mina threw her hand out of her blankets, whacking Mary's breast.

 

"Ooh, watch it there," Mary winced, feeling the hit. She couldn't bloody wait until it was time for the baby to switch to mush. That would be a good time, not having to worry about ruining another shirt or whether her bra would be too tight. Though all those mummy sites said that weaning was godawful... Distracted by her thoughts, she realized rather belatedly that Mina had swung her hand around, pointing right at Sherlock.

 

The look Sherlock gave the tiny fist swinging about was the same look he would give a poisonous insect. Far more curious than he should be.

 

"Sherlock," John said, taking the chair that Mary had abandoned and sitting down in it. He repeated Mary's earlier question, "Would you like to hold Mina?"

 

Sherlock broke eye contact with Mina, looking at John. His mouth opened, then closed quickly. Then, his face contorted into something disdainful.

 

"If I must," he sniffed, and Mary was ready to not do anything for him at all. It was only when she noticed the amused glance he spared in her direction that she scoffed. Shaking her head, she nodded her head to him.

 

"Got your arms out, just sort of bend them like this-" Mary slowly, carefully, knowing Sherlock's strength would depend on how his nerves would hold up, lowered Mina into his arms, "Watch her head-"

 

"He knows how to hold a baby, Mary," John reminded her, putting his hand on her arm. His hand slid down it, and clasped her own hand. Sherlock seemed capable, if not a little cautious. Nevertheless, Mary's free hand hovered.

 

Her worry seemed to go unnoticed by uncle and niece. Their individual studies resumed, although now there seemed to be more information exchanged. As if the pair of them were telepathically exchanging notes. And, wonderfully enough, Mina was blissfully silent. Sherlock moved his arms slightly, adjusting his grip on the baby. As he did, his mouth moved wordlessly. He really was taking notes, Mary realized. He was weighing Mina. Mary opened her mouth to comment, when Mina's hand jabbed out, whacking Sherlock in the chest. His face contorted, the same way Mina's did when she was deciding whether or not it was worth crying about.

 

Hastily, Mary tucked Mina's hand back into her blanket, scolding all the while, "No, Minnie don't-"

 

"It's interesting," Sherlock spoke up. Mary looked at him, then glanced at John. John half shrugged, giving a miniscule shake of his head. They both looked at Sherlock.

 

"What's interesting?" John prompted.

 

"I've never met anyone important when they were a baby."

 

John's grip on Mary's hand went very, very tight. Mary swallowed slowly, pulling her lips back for a moment. Sherlock paid no mind to them, already back to watch Mina's face, her eyes watching him keenly. The detective was in no rush to speak again, but when he did, he lifted his head to speak to John and Mary directly.

 

"When are we going home?"

 

Mary found her voice, and replied, "Tomorrow, Sherlock. We're leaving here tomorrow."

 

 


End file.
